Clean Slate
by piscespen
Summary: The Doctor wants to start the new year off with a bang, but is Donna ready to take the sort of leap he's hoping for?


"Sorry. What did you just say?"

The Doctor pauses in the midst of his repairs, or at least Donna thinks he pauses. At any rate his pinstriped legs, the only part of him still visible from within the bowels of the TARDIS console, cease moving for a moment.

"I said," he says, speaking up so that she can clearly hear his voice over the whine of the sonic screwdriver, "I think we should go out on a date."

"Is that meant to be funny, or something?" Donna demands, scowling at the soles of his trainers.

"No."

"Because, it's not, you know."

"It's not a joke," he says, his disembodied voice growing annoyed, "I think we should see each other."

"We see each other everyday," Donna says, deliberately pretending to miss the point.

"Socially," the Doctor says, "I think we should see each other socially."

"You…" Donna says, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Nope," she says, shaking her head. "Sorry. Still not getting it. You think we should what now?"

"Date," he says, enunciating the T.

"Really," Donna says flatly.

"Yes."

"You think we should date."

"Yes."

"You and me."

"Yes."

"Us."

"Blimey. This conversation was much shorter inside my head," he mutters crossly. "Yes," he says, raising his voice a bit, "you and me. Us. Out on a date. What do you think?"

"I…" she says, pulling a sudden face, "look would you come out of there already?" she demands, "I can hardly have a proper conversation with a pair of trainers now can I."

He lifts his legs, planting his feet against the metal grating on the floor and hauling himself out of the narrow opening. "Well?" he asks.

"Why?" Donna demands.

"Why what?" he asks, his eyebrows arching in confusion.

Donna rolls her eyes. "Why is the sky blue you prawn," she says, exasperated. "Why the sudden interest in dating me?"

"It's not sudden," he says. "It's pretty much all I thought about when we weren't together, going places with you, seeing things with you, being with you."

"We're together all the time now," Donna says, her cheeks burning pink at his words.

"It's what people do Donna," the Doctor says patiently, "when they move from friendship to… something more."

"Oh," Donna says, a little nervously, "is that what we're doing?"

The Doctor blinks. "Isn't it?" he asks. "After last night, I _thought_ it was," he says. "Was I wrong?"

Donna sighs, thinking about the impulsive kiss they shared in that Air-raid shelter the night before. A kiss that could have easily turned into something more, if they hadn't been surrounded by dozens of frightened people riding out the blitz. "You're not wrong," she admits.

"Well then," he says, "you _have_ done this before haven't you? Dated?"

"Yes," Donna says, defensively. "Of course I've dated. I've been on hun… plenty of dates. I just never took _you_ for the dating sort, that's all."

"I've dated."

"Women?"

"Yes, sarky," the Doctor says flatly, "women."

"Women that weren't betrothed to you at the time?"

His mouth turns down in a sudden frown.

"Thought so," Donna says, smugly.

"Oh I see," he says, "you think I can't be casual about it, is that it? Can't give you your space. Well, I'll have you know that _I_ am the very definition of casual. Free spirit, that's me. Look up the word casual in the dictionary and you'll find a picture of me there, looking particularly suave. I practically invented casual dating."

"Stop saying _casual_ like that," Donna says, rolling her eyes, "you sound like a loon, and who are you trying to kid anyway? There wouldn't be anything casual about it and you know it. It'd be you and me in a relationship straight away and I'm just… I'm just not sure I'm ready to take that sort of leap with you, that's all. Not after everything that's happened between us."

"Right," the Doctor says thoughtfully, "I get that. I do." His warm eyes lock with hers after a moment. "There's a simple solution though."

"And what's that?"

"We should go out on a date."

"Ugh," Donna grumbles, "you're like a broken record. You _do_ realise there's a certain amount of planning that would be required on your part in order for a proper date to occur, don't you?"

"Right, a plan," the Doctor says, suddenly at a loss, "a dating plan...Not my greatest strength."

"No."

"Oh well," he shrugs, "what sorts of things are people doing on dates these days?"

"The usual things," Donna says, nearly smiling. "Quiet dinners at home. Going to the Cinema. Taking long walks on the beach…"

"Really…" the Doctor says, pulling a face. "Well, that sounds…"

"Romantic?"

"Boring."

"Stop," Donna warns, "it's what normal blokes do. They show an interest in someone else's life by going to the trouble of getting to know them."

"Really, mind-numbingly boring," the Doctor continues, wrinkling his nose. "Going to the cinema… how conventional."

"Right, well contrary to what _you_ seem to think, most women do not enjoy having their evenings interrupted by random Smog Monster attacks," Donna says tartly.

"Once," the Doctor says, "that only happened once, and anyway as you pointed out earlier, you and I already know each other. It wouldn't be like your first date with what's-his-name."

"Shaun," Donna says flatly, "his name's Shaun. Don't pretend you don't remember what it is, and you and I know each other yeah, but only as friends," she continues, "there's a difference. People in relationships don't keep secrets from each other. They reveal things about themselves that they'd never dare tell anyone else, not even a friend. Painful, possibly unattractive things."

"You didn't shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die, did you?" the Doctor asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Shut up," Donna snaps, swatting his arm in annoyance. "I'm being serious. If we _did_ decide to become more than just friends, things would have to change between us. We'd both have to let our guard down. _Both_ of us," she says pointedly.

"Yeah, I catch your drift Mugsy," the Doctor says dryly.

"Well," Donna says. "It isn't as if you were exactly forthcoming in the past, you know. I'm not interested in having some fling where you just use me for sex and shut me out of the rest of your life. I'm not that kind of girl."

"Who said anything about-"

"-and don't think you can rely on what's left of the Meta-Crisis either," she continues, ignoring him, "or that _Vulcan_ mind meld thingie you do. No shortcuts. You have to take the time to actually talk to-"

"Donna!"

"What!" she snaps. "What?" she repeats a bit self-consciously when he doesn't answer right away.

He just stares at her with those ancient eyes of his for a moment; like he can see right through her, like he can see directly into her soul.

"I know you're afraid," he says gently, taking her hand in his. "I know I hurt you once and you're afraid I'll do it again, but eventually you're going to have to start trusting me again."

Donna swallows, staring at him. He looks so earnest. "One date," she says a bit hesitantly.

"I know just where to take you," he says, suddenly grinning like a cat. "Come on." His grip on her hand tightens and he's abruptly tugging her towards one of the corridors connected to the console room.

"Where are we..."

"Wardrobe," he says simply, "it's more fun if you dress the part."

"How can I dress the part when I don't even know where we're going?" Donna cries.

"Trust me," the Doctor says, impishly waggling his eyebrows. "You're gonna love it."

…...

It's dark when they emerge from the TARDIS into a damp alleyway. The air is crisp and cold and the pavement is slick with freshly fallen snow melting into puddles of grey slush at their feet. Donna pulls her vintage wrap coat with the imitation fur collar and faux diamond clasp closer about herself as the Doctor steps into the alleyway beside her. His customary long tan coat billows around his cream coloured trainers like a cape as he takes her hand in his and leads the way to the main street at the mouth of the alley.

"Where are we?" she asks as they emerge from the dark alley into a street aglow with the light from dozens of cast iron street lamps.

"New York City," the Doctor says cheerfully, "1929, or it _will_ be 1929 in about an hour or so."

"It's New Year's Eve?" Donna asks.

"It's New Year's Eve," the Doctor confirms with a nod. "New Year's Eve in New York at the height of the Jazz Age, what could be better than that."

"Don't tell me we're headed for Times Square," Donna says, biting her lip to keep her teeth from chattering, "it's freezing out here."

"Nope," the Doctor says, setting a brisk pace as they pass boisterous flappers with feathers in their hair chattering excitedly with men in pinstriped suits on the sidewalks. Donna can't help but smile when she glances at the paper horns and plastic whistles and other assorted noisemakers in their hands as they prepare to ring in the new year.

"Hang on," she says, a thought suddenly striking her, "Isn't 1929 the year the Stock Market crashed?"

"Oh that's months away," the Doctor says with a dismissive wave. "_The Roaring Twenties_ were all about living in the moment, Donna."

"Maybe so," Donna says skeptically, "but shouldn't we, I don't know, warn someone? The President maybe?"

"You really think he'd listen?" the Doctor asks.

Donna frowns slightly at that, thinking of the so-called psychics that pop up on television every December to make their doomsday predictions about the upcoming year.

"Probably not," she says, flatly, "but we should at least try."

"I'm not so sure," the Doctor says, thoughtfully eyeing a giddy young couple walking arm in arm along the sidewalk. "Look at them Donna," he says, turning slightly to flash her a melancholy smile. "Soon enough, reality will come crashing down on them, but right now the coming year has the potential to be the best year of their lives. Who are we to take that away from them?"

"Funny," Donna says, "I thought for sure you were going to say it was one of those "fixed-moment-in-time" things."

"Well, that too," the Doctor says, shrugging absently. "Ah, here we are," he exclaims cheerfully, as they turn a corner and pull up short in front of a nondescript stone-faced building."

"A brick wall," Donna says wryly, "my you really _do_ know how to show a girl a good time, don't you."

The building appears abandoned. Donna's eyes stray to the windows, broken and blackened with grime.

"Never judge a book by its cover," the Doctor murmurs, leading her to a steel fire door held slightly ajar by a wooden plank at the end of a sunken concrete stairway. There's a hand painted wood sign with the word "Caution" hanging from a chain across the landing.

"After you," the Doctor says, unhooking the chain with a flourish.

"What, down there?" Donna says, doubtfully, "is it even safe?"

"Trust me," the Doctor says simply, and Donna sighs, carefully descending the steps and waiting for him in the doorway as he reattaches the chain to the railing and bounces down the stairwell after her.

He grins at her and Donna can't help but smile back. She fondly rolls her eyes at him as he nudges the door open and takes her hand, leading her the rest of the way into the building.

It's pitch black inside thanks to the grime covered windows, yet somehow the Doctor keeps moving, his slightly farsighted eyes seemingly unfazed by the lack of light.

Donna gets the sense that the space is large as they move across it. Some sort of warehouse perhaps. She stumbles a bit in her vintage black velvet pumps and the Doctor's wiry arm grips her shoulder, steadying her as he pulls her close. She smiles, though she can't see his face, breathing in his tweedy scent as she leans against him.

A wall looms in front of them, the plaster cracked and the paint peeling. Donna raises a quizzical eyebrow when the Doctor raises his hand and sharply raps his knuckles on it; three rapid knocks followed by three slow ones.

Less than a minute later, a seam appears in the wall as a hidden door opens to reveal a youngish looking man with a thin black moustache and slicked back hair stood in a lamplit doorway.

The sound of laughter and clinking glasses wafts from the hidden room behind him and Donna catches a brief glimpse of well-dressed diners sat at linen covered tables over his shoulder.

"Good evening Sir, Madame," he says pleasantly, nodding at each of them in turn, "Reservation for two?"

"The name's Smith," the Doctor nods, holding up the psychic paper for the young man to see.

The slick-haired man squints at it for a moment, his eyes slowly widening as the mind altering device dupes his brain into believing whatever flimflam the Doctor has dreamed up.

"Mr. _Smith_," the slick-haired man says with a sly wink, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "I get you. Right this way Sir."

"Who does he think we are?" Donna whispers as they follow him into a dining area filled with chatting people.

They cross a large burnished dance floor, a small ensemble of players accompanying them with light jazz as they make their way to the small round tables covered in linen table cloths placed artfully about the room. Elegant tapers and place settings of ornate silver with crystal goblets adorn them.

The Doctor glances absently at the psychic paper. "Exiled foreign royalty apparently," he whispers back before returning it to his pocket. "Funny, that isn't what I was thinking," he says with a shrug.

"No one's ever mistaken me for royalty before," Donna says with a grin, "unless you count Mum calling me the _Queen of drama_ that is."

"Here we are Sir," the slick-haired man says cheerfully when they arrive at an empty table, "best seat in the house."

He helps Donna slip out of her coat, his dark eyes sliding appreciatively along the curves of her backless black evening gown before he drapes the coat over the back of her chair.

"The management recommends holding onto your coats," he says, pulling out the chair for Donna, "we're not anticipating any trouble of course, but it's always best to be prepared just in case."

"Just in case?" Donna asks the Doctor, after the slick Maitre-D leaves.

"In case of a raid," the Doctor says mildly, "the local constables are generally paid to look the other way during the holidays though, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"Look the other way…" Donna says, slightly confused, then it hits her. Hidden doors. Secret knocks. "Is this…" Donna says, casting a furtive glance towards the coloured glass liquor bottles lining the walls behind the bar. "Is this a speakeasy?"

"This is the _21 Club_ Donna," the Doctor says with a grin, "it's the best speakeasy in town."

Donna can't help but smile back. She feels wicked and excited and giddy all at once, like a teenager sneaking cigarettes with her friends in the alleyway behind the local. "But…" she says, eyeing the people seated around them, "is it… safe?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I mean speakeasies," Donna murmurs, "they're supposed to be run by gangsters, aren't they."

"Well I don't think Sonny Corleone is going to bust down the door and start shooting up the joint, if that's what you're afraid of," the Doctor says wryly and Donna chuckles despite herself. "Relax Donna," he says, "the people here are just like you. Tomorrow they'll return to their normal lives, but tonight they celebrate the way humans have been celebrating for centuries."

"By consuming copious amounts of alcohol?" Donna dryly asks.

"Exactly," the Doctor says.

A waif thin waitress with hair so bleached it's practically white, and dark painted on eyebrows appears.

"What can I get for you doll," she asks Donna, tapping a little pad with the short nub of a well-worn pencil.

"A sidecar please," Donna says.

"And for you cutie," she says, throwing the Doctor a saucy wink.

"Bourbon, neat," he says, his cheeks burning.

"Coming right up dreamboat," she says, smiling coquettishly, "love the accent by the way," she says, swinging her hips suggestively as she leaves.

"Look at you," Donna says, smirking a bit at his obvious discomfort, "Bourbon neat. When did you become Johnny Walker?"

The Doctor's mouth quirks into a little half-smile. "When in Rome," he says with a shrug.

"Just so long as I don't have to keep you from climbing onto the bar with a lampshade on your head," Donna says with a wry smile.

"I have two hearts Donna," he says a bit indignantly, "and an extremely high metabolism. Alcohol has very little affect on me."

"Right, so, no chance of getting you drunk and having my way with you then. Good to know," Donna says without thinking.

The doctor blinks, trying to decide if she's being serious or not. Donna isn't quite sure herself. She swallows, the heat rising in her cheeks as she self-consciously averts her eyes.

"Not _much_ chance, no," he says finally, "although for the record you wouldn't have to get me drunk to have your way with me."

Donna nearly smiles. "Good to know," she says, softly.

Their waitress reappears with their drink orders and they sip at them in awkward silence for a moment.

"Will there be anything else?" she asks, a bit suggestively Donna thinks.

"We're fine for now, thank you," the Doctor says, carefully avoiding eye contact with her until she leaves.

"You seem to know your way around this place," Donna observes, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing at his discomfort.

"I came here with Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley once, a long time ago, well not _that_ long ago chronologically speaking of course, but you know what I mean. I was a different man back then."

"Let me guess," Donna says, "she was completely smitten with you."

"Who?"

"Dorothy Parker you plum," Donna says, "didn't she supposedly have a weakness for handsome men?"

"Erm, maybe," the Doctor hedges, "not for me though."

"Oh I see," Donna says, grinning suddenly, "bit funny looking were you?"

"Just a bit," the Doctor agrees, smiling into his drink.

"Oh I don't believe it," Donna says not unkindly, "you're being too hard on yourself."

"I'm really not, you know."

"Well you're hand-... not all together unattractive now," she says, dryly.

"You think?"

"I'm sure our waitress would be willing to weigh in with an opinion," Donna says.

"Right," the Doctor says, grimacing slightly, "it's not her opinion I'm interested in though."

"Well, I suppose I think it too, come to that," Donna says, throwing him a bone.

"Really," he says, a little too smugly.

"Don't go getting all big headed about it," she says, rolling her eyes. "You're no Brad Pitt, you know."

"Right, no," he says, "I've always thought I was a bit waspish in this incarnation anyway."

"White Anglo-Saxon Protestant?" Donna asks, confused.

"The insect," he says, "sort of long and angular and... I never should have said that, because you're thinking up embarrassing nicknames for me even as I speak aren't you."

"Well, _Sting_ is already taken," Donna says, grinning at the pained look on his face. "Wait I've got it," she says, wryly, "_The Tan Hornet. _What do you think?"

A tall leggy torch singer wearing a white satin gown joins the jazz ensemble, her sultry voice rising to join the trilling brass instruments.

"Saved by the ballad," the Doctor says, rising from his seat to offer Donna his hand. "May I have this dance?"

"I thought you said dancing was too conventional," Donna says.

"Not the way I do it," he says, taking her hand and leading her out onto the polished floor.

They fall into an easy, almost familiar rhythm, as if they've been dancing together for years. Donna smiles as they sway together on the edge of the dance floor, the Doctor's steps elegant and lithe as his cool hand rests on the small of her bare back just above the splash of jewelled beadwork at the back of her low rising gown.

"Have I mentioned how lovely you look tonight?" he asks and Donna can feel the heat rising in her cheeks again.

"I seem to recall you mentioning something earlier," she says, "but feel free to repeat yourself."

"You look lovely tonight."

She smiles and shivers slightly at the thrill of his electric fingers on her bare skin.

"Are you cold?" he asks, a note of concern creeping into his voice, and Donna shakes her head.

"No," she says, "I'm just…"

A shout goes up, cutting her off. The music falters and is abruptly replaced by a commanding male voice shouting, "This is the police! Nobody move! You're all under arrest!"

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," Donna groans, rolling her eyes, but the Doctor just grins.

"Come on," he says, grabbing her hand and moving like a dart through the shocked crowd.

He stops off at their table, completely unconcerned by the men in uniforms descending on the room like a blue wave.

"Grab your coat," he tells Donna, shrugging into his own before downing his drink in one large gulp. "This way," he says, his voice scratchy from alcohol burn and his eyes sparkling with mischief as he leads Donna towards the back of the dining room.

She's not sure where he's leading her at first, until she spies the small queue of people slipping out through what appears to be a hidden passage in the back wall. Donna glances back at the remaining diners who aren't quite fast enough to make it to the secret exit before the police catch up with them. They don't seem particularly bothered by the situation, possibly due to the numbing effects of the alcohol in their systems. Indeed a few cheeky fellows wink wryly at Donna as she and the Doctor slip out of the room into a narrow stairwell.

Laughing, they quickly ascend the steps, emerging onto the street around the corner from the cluster of police cars surrounding the seemingly abandoned warehouse they originally entered through, They slip away, heading down the street in the opposite direction.

"Sorry," the Doctor says as soon as they're out of sight, Donna, stood beside him, quickly fastens her coat against the chilly night air. "Do I lose points for this?"

"Well, we didn't end up in jail," Donna says mildly, "for once."

"No we didn't," he agrees, as if he can't quite believe it himself. "How about that."

"And as dates go, this one wasn't too bad," she says.

"No?"

A sort of dull roar fills their ears suddenly, the sound of thousands of voices celebrating together in boisterous glee.

"Oh that's it," the Doctor says softly, "it's midnight. The start of a new year. Clean slate."

"Clean slate," Donna agrees. Then he kisses her, wrapping his arms around her as Donna melts against him.

Fireworks launch into the sky, exploding over the tops of the buildings in technicolor fire. Their lips part and they smile up at the glittering sparks of light, raining down on their upturned faces from above.

"Not too bad at all," Donna murmurs.

~END~


End file.
